The Fool's Bargain
by Era-Age
Summary: With their kings protected on the chessboard, the mages of Hibernia, Albion, Germania, and Nihon gather to compete in the Holy Grail War. Yet even with their spells, their magic may not be enough to thwart one another in this grand scheme of deceit. These mages require one critical ingredient to secure their victory: pawns. An AU Inspired by the Tevinter Imperium in Dragon Age.


The floors of Fiann Daingean shook with shouts and thundering boots as fenníd-men raced toward the grand hall. Some men called to make way, others for more reinforcements, and then there were those who called for their rigfenníd. The torches wavered in their wake, but the fenníd-men paid no heed to the darkened halls or to the lightning streaking outside. Rain streamed in through the holes in the roof, and boots pounded through the puddles and mud. The year was only in mid Eanair, and by morning the rain will have turned to snow. The following months would only prove colder, with the green isle hidden beneath white tarps.

Servants of the Daingean were pushed to the side as the fenníd shouted; the women and children held their brooms and bowls close to their bodies to make way. The servants who called for the fenníd to explain the commotion were ushered away. Outside, the villagers of Baíscne crowded at the windows and doors. It was far too late in the eve for the commoners to be milling about Daingean, and their presence here only bespoke of the racket.

The fortress was in an uproar, and rightly so, Lorcan mac Donncha mused with a stern pinch to his mouth. His old age showed in his hobbling, yet none of the armed warriors paused to assist him. He hobbled onward, his robes whispering through the halls, toward the front gate of Fiann Daingean. From where he stood near the torches, he saw villagers peeking their heads at the windows, and some trying to slip into the stronghold.

Lorcan gripped his cane with both hands and cleared his throat. One of the fenníd turned to him and quickly pounded a fist against their left breast. "Sir Lorcan," the warrior said.

"Keep the villagers out of the Daingean," Lorcan said. His cane tapped against the wooden floorboards. "Anyone outside of the Fianna need not be witness to this, Sir Ferdia."

Sir Ferdia knelt and saluted once more. "Sir Lorcan, truth be to your words, aye. But the Fianna are sworn to protect those of Baíscne. Word has already reached the village proper, and the crier has already been awoken. Should they not be told of this night?"

"Rise, Sir Ferdia," Lorcan said, and the fenníd likened. "Aye, our vows are to protect, and that is what we shall do. Keep the villagers away, and barricade the doors."

"Hasty be my tone, Sir Lorcan, and mayhap imprudence be my words. But is this not preparation for invasion? 'Tis but one man," Sir Ferdia reasoned.

Lorcan hadn't quirked a brow, twitched a lip, or even blinked; he stared his fellow fenníd in the eye. "Diarmuid Ua Duibhne is not just one man." Inclining his head, Sir Ferdia saluted and hurried down the corridor to relay the order. Lorcan huffed and drummed his fingers against his cane. "And 'tis no longer 'Sir Lorcan,'" he grumbled.

Lorcan started his hobble back to the main hall of Daingean. The other fenníd swerved around him seamlessly. Using a knobby hand to push open the grand doors, Lorcan huffed and shook his head. "Never used to drain me so," he said. The door creaked open, and upon seeing his rigfenníd seated on his throne—the throne meant for his wife vacant—Lorcan bowed.

Rather, he inclined as much as his worn knees allowed him.

"The evening is fit for this," Lorcan mused. The tables that just two months prior were filled with laughing men and flowing ale were now barren and shoved to the side of the grand hall. Rumpled banners stuck to the floor and chairs at odd angles, all testament to the scandal that had occurred not two moons ago. "Rain, lightning, and the roll of thunder. Heavens be witness to this event."

"Silence, Lorcan," Rigfenníd Fionn mac Cumhaill said. His voice, though not a shout, carried throughout the empty room. "Keep your jests to yourself."

"I merely observe," Lorcan said with a nod. He glanced pointedly at the rafters. Rain dripped from the roof. "Word is that he surrendered himself at the mouth of Droichead Átha. For long minutes, he fended off his brethren—wounding, certainly, but not killing—and then let lay his spears and offered his hands." Lorcan saw that the rigfenníd's knuckles had gone white around the arms of his throne.

"Witness be the heavens to my actions," Fionn snarled. "Let God condemn his soul."

Lorcan glanced at the cross so carefully placed behind Fionn's throne. "You mustn't demand from the Lord above, my friend." He shuffled forward, his cane tapping against the floor. "'Tis not our duty in life."

Fionn's nostrils flared, and his Adam's apple bobbed. These moments when the rigfenníd was angered happened to be the times when his true age showed: the wrinkles around his eyes, the grey of his hair, the sagging skin of his throat like a turkey's wattle. "Where is he?"

Lorcan settled into his rightful place just behind Fionn. "Were I to judge by the shouts just beyond the door," he started, "he will be here within the minute. Fionn."

"Hold your tongue, Lorcan."

Lorcan sighed and could only watch his rigfenníd straighten his posture and set his brow.

The doors to the grand hall opened with a bang, and the fenníd marched into the chamber. For Lorcan, it was like watching sand empty into the bottom part of an hourglass, and the comparison nudged at his lips.

Time. What a funny concept.

Fionn had his eyes set to the center of his massive guard.

There was a man, stripped down to his waist, with hands tied behind his back and bloodied hair matted to his face. Cuts and bruises lined his torso and arms, and were it not for the orange glow the torches offered, the sight would have been horrid. Appearance was everything, and if the stink of sweat and dirt and blood reached either Fionn or Lorcan, they kept their stony faces.

The ground of Baíscne was cold this time of year, and the northeastern shores of Droichead Átha harbored the chilled wind from Albion. Hibernia's location suffered thusly; the winds of Albion carried with them winter and sickness. Had this man been collected from Droichead Átha in this state, his flesh must have been frozen.

While Fionn hosted an expression fit for one looking upon a cockroach, Lorcan chose something simpler: grief. In the eyes of the fenníd, Lorcan saw the shared emotion. Beneath the long sleeves of his fur robes, Lorcan thumbed a rosary.

This man was dead weight for the fenníd, and it was no real struggle to push him before their rigfenníd—rather, it was an awkward juggle for the fenníd, for their prisoner was taller than the other men.

Finally, they pushed him to his knees and held his chin to keep his head upright.

From his throne, Fionn judged the prisoner. His wattle bobbed again, and his knuckles curled. The fenníd shifted on their feet, the leather of their armor creaking, and glanced about one another. Though Fionn was in his later years, his voice still held the power of a young man's, and his booming voice made everyone—save for Lorcan and the prisoner—suck in a breath. "Diarmuid Ua Duibhne."

Diarmuid lifted his chin a fraction. "My rigfenníd," he acknowledged, and did his best to incline his head. The fingers beneath his chin allowed him the action.

"You dare address me as such," Fionn started, "after conspiring against me. Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, your honor has been lost."

"My rigfenníd," he said, keeping his amber eyes on his leader's black ones, "I implore you to hear my words. My rigfenníd."

Fionn's brows pinched together. He was a broad man, and his shoulders filled out the seat of his throne. "Words from a thief hold no value here. You have stolen from me that which could have saved this land, and now you return to mock me."

Diarmuid put his weight into his knees to straighten his back. "I surrender myself to you in the name of honor, my rigfenníd. Please, be it in your mind to harken my words."

"God willing," Lorcan murmured. Fionn frowned at him, yet Lorcan merely cleared his throat and continued on with, "And what say you, First Spear of Fianna? You have stolen the bride of our rigfenníd, Fionn mac Cumhaill, and spirited her away to your personal burrow." Diarmuid's head bowed with the weight of Lorcan's words. The fenníd closed their eyes at Lorcan's accusations. "The Knights of Fianna, you have betrayed, and so your treachery extends not only to our rigfenníd, but to your brethren. Your shield-brothers, your spear-brothers, have been deceived."

"Sir Lorcan—"

Lorcan's voice was not as loud as Fionn's, but it still cut as sharp as any blade. "Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, son of the late Aengus, what have you to say to your fenníd? For were you not raised here after your father's passing, given food and roof and water, and taught the ways of loyalty and honor? Now here you kneel before our rigfenníd," Lorcan said, "in shame. What have you to say?"

"My fenníd Lorcan," Diarmuid said, daring to raise his head, "my words will prove no comfort to your ears, yet the truth I will speak. It was not I who stole from our rigfenníd."

Fionn scoffed, and Lorcan frowned. One of the fenníd took a step closer to the bound Diarmuid.

"You say that you were not the one to steal my Gráinne? To take her virtue that was not yours to take? You say that it was another of the fenníd? If your words are true," Fionn said, "then name the man who stole her from me."

"My rigfenníd," Diarmuid said, "though it was my body which stole Gráinne from Fiann Daingean, it was not of my own accord. My limbs moved under a spell born of witchcraft. This body had no say over what actions its limbs performed." He had barely finished his sentence before Fionn stood from his throne.

"Witchcraft!" Fionn barked. "You wish to add lying and heresy to your list of sins!"

"Nay, my rigfenníd!" Diarmuid shuffled to his feet. Had it not been for the fenníd supporting him by the elbows, he'd have fallen. "I speak only the truth!"

"You mean to say you were seduced?" Lorcan supplied, raising a brow at Fionn.

Diarmuid shook his head. "Nay! My mind and body did not want it; there was no desire of flesh or touch. Lady Gráinne had bewitched me using means abnormal to Man."

Lorcan shook his head. "While magic is not outlawed in Hibernia," he said to Fionn, "I presume the High King would have mentioned his daughter's capabilities in sorcery, had she any."

"Think nothing more of it," Fionn dismissed with his hand. "He lies."

Diarmuid struggled against the arms restraining him. "My rigfenníd, please! No lie has crossed my mouth this night. I swear upon my honor!" His bare feet shook against the floor, and his knees threatened to buckle.

Fionn slowly stepped forward. "You swear such a thing in front of my knights, my fenníd, who also swear by their honor? Is it gall or ignorance that forces such a hideous thing from your mouth? Boy," he seethed, "you have no honor, and your words are empty."

"Perhaps," Lorcan sighed, "Lady Gráinne herself may clarify this situation?"

Diarmuid lowered his gaze.

"Speak then," Fionn agreed. "Since my wife had not been collected, I assume you have hidden her. Where have you stashed her?"

"I cannot say," Diarmuid said.

Fionn curled his lip and gripped Diarmuid's hair. The fenníd took respectable steps back from their rigfenníd. "You cannot say?"

"I cannot," he affirmed.

"Have you left her in Droichead Átha?"

"I cannot say."

"Is this your plan: to surrender in the name of your false honor, only to escape once more and continue on with my wife? And you speak of honor." Fionn shook Diarmuid's head.

"Diarmuid Ua Duibhne," Lorcan said, carefully hobbling closer, "realize that should you supply us with Lady Gráinne's whereabouts, truth may yet be added to your words, and you will be pardoned of your crimes."

"I have committed no crimes," Diarmuid said.

Lorcan sighed. "Does this mean, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, that you will not name Lady Gráinne's whereabouts?" There was a pause, and Lorcan took the chance to feel some hope for the boy.

"I cannot say."

"Fool," Fionn growled. He released Diarmuid and paced back to his throne. Staring at the cross anchored to the wall, Fionn made his announcement. "Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, foster son of Angus, former Knight of Fianna—"

"—My rigfenníd!"

"—Former First Spear of Fianna—"

"—Rigfennid!"

"—God being witness to this night, you have committed the crimes of larceny, treason, and perjury. God Himself demands, should you have also committed the sin of adultery, your death. Any other guilt on your conscience will be exposed during court; word of your actions will be sent to the High King, and he will decide your punishment. The Lord above will decide your ultimate fate." Fionn turned his head toward Diarmuid. A smile cracked his lips at the sight of the young man's pale face. "Know that the pain you feel tonight has festered in my heart for the past two moons. I now give that pain to you, and you will dwell on it in one of the cells below Daingean."

One member of the fenníd stepped forward and outstretched his arms. "My rigfenníd, please, harken!"

Fionn frowned. "Sir Oscar, unless your words concern any more crimes this scoundrel has committed, you will stay your tongue."

Sir Oscar shook his head. "Your words pain my own heart, my rigfenníd. I beseech you to store him away elsewhere, for the cells are frozen, and not even the wolfhounds can bear the cold."

"Then he will freeze," the rigfenníd said.

"Fionn," Lorcan coughed.

"Please, grandfather!" Sir Oscar pled. "Betrayer he may be, should he die before the High King hears of his treacheries, God will punish you. Lady Gráinne is the High King's sole daughter."

Fionn studied his grandson for a moment before turning to the rest of the fenníd. "You have in your midst a traitor of the Fianna, or Hibernia, and of our High King Cormac Mac Art. Think of this man as a stranger, for he has been estranged himself from us. You will take him to the cells."

Sir Oscar balled his hands into fists and marched over to his grandfather as the rest of his fenníd dragged along a dead-weight Diarmuid. "Grandfather—"

Lorcan placed a veiny hand on Sir Oscar's shoulder. "Please, Sir Oscar, I bid you to leave me and your grandfather in privacy." Sir Oscar looked back and forth between Fionn and Diarmuid, whose dragged feet had just past the threshold of the grand hall. Lorcan squeezed his shoulder. "Let me speak with him."

Flaring his nostrils—a trait so common amongst the Mac Cumhaills—Sir Oscar offered a stiff nod before turning on his heel. Once the doors to the grand hall closed, Lorcan carefully lowered himself to sit on one of the steps leading to the throne.

"What a night, indeed," he mused. "Your voice rivaled that of the thunder, old friend."

Fionn kept his hands tightly clasped behind his back as he paced. "Yet you still mock me, Lorcan."

Lorcan folded his hands over his cane and watched his rigfenníd. "I am not here to mock you, old friend."

"Then what more could Lorcan Mac Donncha want with me?" Fionn growled. "I have made my decision, and my word is final. That traitor will rot in the cells until the High King makes his decision."

Sighing, Lorcan shook his head. "I wonder where you find the energy for these matters, Fionn. I certainly could not hold a grudge as hideous as yours."

"'Tis not about grudges," Fionn said. He paused and studied his throne—rather, the empty one beside his. "This pact of marriage was to strengthen the relationship between the High King and the Baíscne Clan. What now, pray you tell me, am I to do?"

"The Baíscne is suffering this season," Lorcan agreed, "and has been suffering for the past three winters. We have lost many of our kin and friends to hunger and illness. Yet, old friend, you still insisted on putting everything on the table for your engagement banquet. It didn't even occur to me that we still had mead left in our cellars."

"What I would give for a tankard," Fionn grumbled.

"And no doubt our clan will be tasked with retrieving Lady Gráinne, wherever she may be," Lorcan added. "That is more of our resources put to a cause that may not prove fruitful. By God, does that boy comprehend the severity of the situation?"

"He has sullied the Fianna, my wife, my name, and his honor. He has nothing that can be redeemed." Fionn slumped into his throne.

Lorcan's shoulders bent toward his torso. "But by God, Fionn, the boy will not last a week in those cells. Sir Oscar spoke the truth: he will freeze down there, and we will have but a corpse to present to the High King. Is that what you wish?"

"You mock me, Lorcan."

Snorting, Lorcan rolled his eyes toward the dripping rafters. "And so I mock! At least I would not have the High King hold a trial for a cadaver."

"Would you have me pamper him, then? Reward him for breaking his code of honor, for his deceit?"

"No," Lorcan said. "I would have you make sure he survives until Cormac Mac Art sees him."

"Do not address our High King so informally, Lorcan," Fionn said.

Lorcan's mouth twitched in amusement. "And why shall I not? I've spilled enough of my blood for his family. Why, Fionn, I even wrestled one of his pigs."

Waving his hand, Fionn rumbled, "Very well, Lorcan. Have Sir Oscar fetch the traitor's wolfhound. He may use her as warmth in the cold."

"That will hardly be enough, Fionn."

"And yet it is the most I will offer," Fionn said. "The heretic spoke of my Gráinne dabbling in magic, Lorcan! He soiled her, inside and outside—my hospitality will stretch as far as the fur on his bitch's body!"

Lorcan blinked. "I have upset you, my rigfenníd," he observed. "My, but that does strike an idea, does it not?" Using his cane to climb to his knees, Lorcan then hobbled over to his rigfenníd. "Fionn."

Fionn Mac Cumhaill paused in rubbing his temples to look his friend in the eye. "Aye?"

"Perhaps we should explore this possibility of witchcraft," Lorcan suggested. Fire flashed through Fionn's coal-black eyes. Lorcan raised a palm. "Please, old friend, harken. This idea does not carry with it the connotation of Lady Gráinne practicing sorcery. Rather, I believe we may conjure a solution to the Fianna's depleted resources through this idea of magic."

"Lorcan," Fionn said, a frown creasing his brow, "you have lost me."

"Begging pardon from the Lord," Lorcan said, "but as you are well aware, there are great families in Albion who have long practiced sorcery. Families that, for generations, have constructed and cast spells."

"Aye," Fionn agreed, "but that is in Albion. Let them play with their fake fire and false ideas. The Lord is watching them."

Lorcan sighed and thumbed his rosary. "They practice their magic but for one purpose, old friend: to win the Holy Grail."

The Holy Grail, an omnipotent object that was said to have the power to grant one desire for its bearer, was both known to Lorcan and Fionn—in fact, all of Hibernia, Albion, and the eastern lands knew of it. Mages from every dark corner, every shining tower, and every well-known family waged war over the Holy Grail. For centuries, the Holy Grail introduced East to West in vicious combat. It was said that the last wish caused the East to split down the middle, and a great river claimed the valleys and isolated the mountains.

It was a greedy thing, a hideous thing, and for the life of him, Fionn could not piece together Lorcan's ideas. There were no mages in the Fianna; they were natural men, using skill and spear and shield. Exercise, practice, and patience were their ingredients to success, and none in the Fianna had ever touched magic.

Not even their rivals in Clan Mora committed such a sin as to practice magic.

Magic was not outlawed in Hibernia, for the High King had mages trained in the healing arts stored in his castle, yet it was not encouraged. For Lorcan to mention such a beastly thing as the Holy Grail was borderline heresy.

"The ways of magic has its uses," Lorcan continued, "and its limitations. The mages chosen to seek the Holy Grail often encounter these limitations, and so they find more… mundane solutions."

"Lorcan," Fionn sighed, "your words are like a spider's web." He leaned back in his throne. "What are you proposing? That I send my men over to Albion to learn magic? Just the thought gurgles my stomach and sours my mouth. And what of Gráinne? I need my wife."

"No," Lorcan said, "you do not. Not if we send a champion to one of the mage families in Albion." There was a knock on the doors. Lorcan waited as his rigfenníd straightened and called for the newcomer to enter.

Sir Ferdia peeked his head into the room and bowed. "Forgive my disturbance, my rigfenníd, but the villagers have yet to calm. The criers are out there, spewing nonsense about our rations vanishing, the knights revolting, the water molding, rats, cats, bats—" Sir Ferdia sucked in a breath and slumped his shoulders. "If it is not a trouble to you, may Sir Lorcan please assist me with appeasing the town?"

"I am no longer a 'Sir,'" Lorcan grumbled.

Fionn Mac Cumhaill nodded. "My thanks, Sir Ferdia, for being swift in your deliverance. Lorcan, old friend, see what you can do about this matter. I will be here, should you need me. And have the servants draft me paper and ink."

Lorcan looked over his shoulder at his rigfenníd. "The hour is late, Fionn, and you have had to ponder over many a subject this night. Would it not be best for you to sleep and think anew in the morn? Couriers will not be able to travel in this weather."

Fionn shook his head. "The more I delay, the more that traitor shames my name. Off with you, Lorcan."

Lorcan sighed once more. God and his Angels, it felt as if he'd sighed away the entire day. Taking Sir Ferdia's offered arm, he hobbled throughout Fiann Daingean.

Rather, he was nearly dragged, as the energy in Sir Ferdia's step was much too vigorous for Lorcan's old body. Huffing, Lorcan said, "If it is your goal to displace my arm from its socket, Sir Ferdia, you are nigh on the way to reaching it."

Sir Ferdia coughed and turned his head. "Apologies, Sir Lorcan," he said, not seeing the twitch to Lorcan's brow, "but I have been busy keeping the villagers away this night, as you ordered; I not yet know of what became of my spear-brother."

"Sir Ferdia," Lorcan said, "as you heard me say before, the hour is late, and our minds are tired. It will be better to discuss such things in the light of day."

"Aye," Ferdia said with a bob of his head. He persisted. "But what about Diarmuid? I have been practicing my strikes with the spetum, just as he showed me, and I think I finally understand—"

"Ferdia."

Sir Ferdia turned his head to find Lorcan staring straight ahead. His knuckles turned white around Ferdia's sleeve.

"Let it be, Ferdia."

* * *

Finding the wolfhound had proven an easy task for Sir Oscar; the dog had stayed faithfully by her master's cot in his absence. She wagged her tail upon seeing Sir Oscar step into the sleeping quarters. The barracks were full of snores this late at night, and the fenníd were bundled in their furs.

It had begun snowing outside, and Sir Oscar could taste the chill on his tongue. "'lo there, lass," he cooed as he settled on the vacant bed. "'lo there, Macha." The dog thumped her tail against the bedding and nosed at Sir Oscar's hands. He pat her head.

An eerie feeling crept up his spine. The owner of this cot would never lay in the blankets or feel the pillow beneath his head. Sir Oscar frowned and obliged Macha as she demanded more attention. Her master would never again have the pleasure of shucking his boots off and collapsing in bed after a long sparring session; he would never have the pleasure of eating steaming oats with his spear-brothers early in the morn; he would not even be able to receive a proper "top o' the morning."

Sir Oscar frowned. Diarmuid had left in such a terrible hurry two months ago, that his pack was still kicked under his cot. Because that's what Diarmuid did after a hard day in the Fiann: he tendered to his armor and spears, and then swiftly kicked his satchel beneath the bed to join his brothers for a drink. Every time, without fail.

Diarmuid had only taken his spears and Gráinne on the night of the engagement banquet. Lord only knew how he'd survived without supplies so long.

Squeezing Macha's fur one last time, Sir Oscar stood and shook himself of these unpleasant thoughts. "Alright, Macha lass, let's go see your master, aye?"

* * *

 **A/N:** So. I have fallen into the Fate/Zero realm (thank you, Netflix) of asdhglsahgklajsdgkljsdak. To put it simply, I am thoroughly impressed with Fate/Zero. Fate/Stay Night feels like a disappointment so far.

Any~ways~ While watching Fate/Zero, I was totally down with BROTP Diarmuid/Arturia. I could see them developing romantic feelings for each other, given time. But you know, Diarmuid gets the short end of the stick (pun intended, yes, quite), and Fate doesn't really allow for romances in the storyline. That's okay; this is why we have Fanfiction, right? Right.

So, with this, I would like to say I am choosing a different approach to the Gráinne-Diarmuid legend. I know people may not be fans of this interpretation, but this is my interpretation: Gráinne had Diarmuid under a spell. Diarmuid did not love Gráinne. Gráinne used Diarmuid for her own gains, and whether or not she eventually loved him is irrelevant since she cast a spell on him. That's my interpretation. You may disagree, and quite frankly I really don't care. Don't like, don't read, yeah?

And for my followers who are getting this story alert, _no_ I have not dropped Steel for Humans. Am I quite ready to drop the fandom? Hell yes. I cannot begin to describe how much I am done with the Fairy Tail fandom, _especially_ the Gajevy fans.


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